Random posts from a writer who loves cats and coffee. A Democratic woman with chronic illness (respiratory) who lives to read, write, and binge watch Netflix or Amazon Video. Married to a hot foodie who plays lots of video games. I'm not just a broken human, I'm also uniquely maladjusted but fun!

She smiles up at me, her hands relaxing. “Seventh floorboard from the door. I took a video of what's in there. And I backed it up on my friend's cloud drive. Oh, and I have another of you from last Tuesday, when you added to the box. It's not clear what's in that bag you were carrying, but you take it to your room, and then there's the sound of the board moving, and then you come out with an empty bag and insult me. Mom will certainly put it together.”

“Slimy twit! You're not supposed to spy on me.”

My twin sister rolls her eyes. “Pull me up. We've won.”

“Which friend?”

“What?”

I let go of one of her hands. “Which friend has the backup copy?”

“You're not going to let me fall!” Her dropped hand reaches for me. She tries to yank herself up. We both know she can't.

The kids behind me snicker until I turn my head toward them. “Anyone not wanting to land in the pit should leave. Now.”

No one doubts my resolve. They run like roaches from the light. I turn toward my twin.

“If you drop me, mom will ask what happened, and I'll tell her why you let me fall.”

“When I drop you, it'll take time for you to get out. And you'll be covered in the goo of the pit. I'll get home first. I'll tell mom you jumped, and that you've been planting evidence against me. I'll show her the box and say it's yours. That I was keeping something else in there. Her mind will be made up before you get home.”

“No! No, you can't do that. Help me up. Just help me up. I'll get rid of the videos. And the backups.”

“And you won't spy on me again?”

She shakes her head. A tear slips out and rolls down her cheek. It drops to the goo far below.

But what is one tear compared to wax, mud, decaying plants, bits of trash, and thousands of insects? They say the pit was once for swimming in. That important people raced around in it, back when it was full of pristine water. Back when there was so much water that people wasted it for things like that.

Now we just hold each other over it and see who can keep their partner from falling in the longest. My sister and I hold all the records.

“Which friend has the backup?”

“Sett,” my sister answers with a huff.

“Poinsettia? You gave her the backup copy? Why her?”

“Like she's storing anything else on her cloud? Besides, she's the only one who wouldn't turn on me and blackmail you herself.”

“No, Fuzzbrain, I'm the only one who wouldn't turn on you.” I lift my sister up. She's clean, as always, because I've never let her fall into the pit. And I never would. But she doesn't need to know that.

Thursday, December 6, 2018

Twitter banned users from harassing trans members via misgendering or using dead names.

And you're like, "well about time, nice work!"
(Seriously, if that's not how you feel, get off of my blog.)

But SOMEHOW ... somehow a group of rejects got together and carefully dug through the thousands of trans people to find the dozen or so criminals in the group and say that no trans person deserves rights or to be treated with dignity and respect because here's a small segment of the population that has abused the system and are just bad humans no matter the gender.

Allllllll righty then.
So I guess that ends the "Not All Men" argument forever. I mean, I can list a dozen killers who are all famous for some pretty sick crimes and, interestingly, they're all men.

Now, I'd normally tell you that not all men are psycho killers who keep children for snacks. But if we're gonna judge the whole trans community by the bottom of their barrel, then it's only fair to do the same for EVERY other group.

And since someone is gonna think dumb shit like that men didn't choose to be men but trans... I can't even type it because of the level of dumb here... well, for those who are gonna whip that out, I present priests. Sounds like a good group who do good things, till you view them only by the very worst among them.

If you've ever taken a class, you only did as well as the lowest grade. Everyone is now going to be paid as much as the lowest paid person in the company. Any savings will vanish, just like it does when the very worst investors have at it. Yes, from now on, we're all gonna just be whatever the lowest of the low happens to be.

Tuesday, December 4, 2018

As far as being a burden, yes, yes I am. I've cut most of the people out of my life who treated me like one. And I took a LOT of activities and independence off my calendars so I don't go out and become a burden to unsuspecting strangers. I put the responsibility of my breathing on myself as much as I possibly can.

I'm reading something now that talks about living more fearlessly. Or living in such a way that fear is there, but suggests to just do the opposite of whatever it wants.

And I feel the need to defend myself. Which is probably another indication that I should be in mental therapy counseling or whatever.

"Unsuspecting Strangers"

I have gone to the hospital to have lung tests done. The last one resulted in the tech calling the code team. Part of the reason is that she had no idea what else to do as my respiratory attack WOULD NOT STOP. Her job, the actual thing she does for a living (I'm assuming here, because I'd like to think the hospital didn't ask a receptionist to "cover" the respiratory lab or something), for which she must have had some kind of training, includes dealing with people who have breathing issues. This test isn't done on healthy people. They only whip this phone-booth sized coffin with a tube that cuts off your air supply for people who are having real problems. Which means she wasn't an UNSUSPECTING stranger. She was freaking trained to deal with this situation, and I caused her to freak the fuck out.

This is not the only instance where I've had medical people, ones with letters after their names, sitting there wide-eyed without a clue as to how to keep Death from taking me.

So when I say that I would be overwhelmed with guilt if I put a regular person, some mall-dweller or whatever, in the position to decide between trying to help me or fleeing the scene, this is what I mean. The odds of a random person knowing what to do aren't good. People with decades of training and experience stand there going, "uhh... what?" Yeah, I have instructions on my medical ID bracelet and phone saying to get me to cool air. What if they don't look? What if that time it isn't enough?

What if I die and someone ends up with guilt because they couldn't save a stranger, and they never even find out that the odds were stacked heavily against them? I'm just some asshole who got it in her head to go do a thing one day, and then couldn't breathe, and now they fucked up CPR or whatever and had to watch me die. And THAT goes through my head EVERY time I plan to walk out my door. EVERY time.

It's a little easier with friends and certain family members. They at least know to dump ice or other frozen products on my airway and chest and then shove an inhaler in my mouth once the cold had a chance to work. And they know how bad it is, so they know if that doesn't work and I end up dying, it really is despite their best efforts and there really wasn't something more they could do. I'm not forcing them into a guilt situation as much. Yeah, they'd still be sad and all, but these are rational people who would come to the conclusion there really wasn't something else to do.

Yes, I'm more afraid of saddling a stranger with guilt than I am of staying home in my air conditioning with some control over things.

And that probably isn't mentally healthy. Or physically. But it IS what I've got.

Monday, December 3, 2018

See... I want to believe this. But the chronic illness that is kinda leading to mental illness (and by kinda I mean a suped-up truck with hauling capabilities off the charts) has a different take.

I wasn't stupid. But the oxygen deprivation has taken a toll on my mind. I notice it all the time. I'm slipping.

I wasn't ugly. But the steroids and being told to stay still as much as possible caused my weight to double-and-then-some, which isn't helping my appearance.

Worthless depends on how that word is written, because if you stick a space in there and do some very basic math... Umm... If "worth" can be measured in terms of money, not only am I worth considerably less than I once was, but I'm now an economic drain. There are plenty of politicians leading my country who have implied as such and clearly would prefer that people like me drop dead or deport ourselves as we aren't adding financial value.

As for being weak... Physically, I use to lift 80 pounds overhead at least three times a week. Now I struggle lifting 5 pounds. Mentally, I use to multi-task with the best of 'em and deal with drama and stress without having a breakdown. Now, no. Because I live to close to the breaking point, getting tipped over it takes almost nothing. I had a meltdown over a lollipop once which is so dumb I can't even stand that it happened. And that pops me around to emotionally, where I was once stable and labeled "not like other girls." But now things hit me more often and I have new feelings that I can't even identify, much less deal with, but it's not like I'm crapping out money for a therapist. Which would be nice, but I can't even afford better lung docs so ... oh look, there's that worth/ value thing again.

As far as being a burden, yes, yes I am. I've cut most of the people out of my life who treated me like one. And I took a LOT of activities and independence off my calendars so I don't go out and become a burden to unsuspecting strangers. I put the responsibility of my breathing on myself as much as I possibly can. But still. There are family members I haven't seen in years because yes, it would be a HUGE burden on them to make their home cool enough for me to breathe or for us to meet up somewhere that's cold. I'm not worth wearing extra layers of clothing for, to them. I don't push the point. That worth thing, if it isn't about money... if it's about value in the family, well then I've fallen clean off that wagon. I'm down to less than a dozen family members who care.

I'm not sharing this on Facebook because I don't want pity or to be argued with about my feelings, my reality. I saw the post on my friend Becky Suglia's timeline (Dec 3, 12:14pm EST -- Friends only: her link) and I wrote this reply. But then I didn't want to comment with something THIS LONG on her Facebook wall. So I moved it all here, to my blog, where it will barely be seen.

My reply isn't the POINT of the post. The meme isn't for people with chronic illness. Or whatever other argument someone who can feel cheered up by this will make. I'm not there. I lack evidence to contradict the facts of my reality. Yeah, I have some good days. And there is a small group of people who are glad I'm around and don't think about me this way.

But my body is a prison. My freedom is restricted by my need for cold air. And yeah, I could try carrying a bag of ice everywhere, or this fan or that fan, etc. But see that paragraph about being weak? Yeah. And whipping those out reminds me that I've put myself in a dangerous situation. That I shouldn't be doing what I'm doing. And I feel like I'm behaving in such a way as to indicate I am ungrateful to be alive.

And that's when guilt and depression really kick in. Self-blame. And then I, the person who was always quite fond of herself, land up in a pit of self-loathing. Then grief and regret. Until I can't stand it anymore.

Those are bad days. I'm ashamed of myself when they happen. And then I see memes like this and they make me feel even worse about myself. EVEN THOUGH I KNOW THAT ISN'T THE POINT! It's supposed to make people feel better. And I truly hope it does make someone else feel better.